


Along the Combahee River

by Madtom_Publius



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:39:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7117936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madtom_Publius/pseuds/Madtom_Publius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On August 27, 1782, John Laurens, not waiting for backup, led his troops in a minor raid against British forces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Along the Combahee River

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr by publius-esquire

The faces of his men said it all: this was a confrontation brought upon by the sort of vanity induced by a year of disappointments. But swollen with a splintered sense of self-esteem, Laurens could not see past his own pride to realize the time for grandeur had passed; there was no glory to be won in marching light troops against the British to stop the petty theft of provisions. The country was already theirs. They were free. But a heavy heart did not remember his bravery in countless battles, his victory in overseas diplomacy, or his bright future in the first offices of the new republic. Laurens only thought back to the bungled attack on the enemy’s post at John’s Island, his repeated political failures to have his black regiment plan realized, and that the men under his command had grown to hate him so much that the insubordination they presented must have been deliberate; and if they despised him so much now, what would be their reactions if they knew the depths of depravity he had been capable of?

 

He had given so much already to his fledgling nation. He had served as a model of virtue, and at no small expense: the fortune he stood to inherit was diminishing, his reputation in the state had been tarnished by his repeated failures, and the most recent news of his wife’s death – the woman he had not seen since he sailed back to America’s shores – had elicited such ambivalent emotions in his breast that he could barely stand to look at himself anymore.

 

But surely this would fix all of that, set every wrong right again. History would forgive him these mistakes if his final military act could see him swooping down to protect his state’s citizens from thieving redcoats. Posterity would revere him. People would love him. History would love him. His father would love him. And maybe he could finally love himself. 

 

So he decided he could not fall back and wait for reinforcements. Outnumbered though his troops were, he was anxious to win his laurel and the admiration only an underdog victory can convey. It was selfish. He knew it. His troops knew it. Deep in his heart, he knew it was wrong, but his ambition was so prevalent that he wanted the entire honor for himself. Obligations as a father, son, lover and friend all were subservient to a fractured ego, to a depleted sense of worth.

 

So he ordered the charge.

 

“Hurrah!” John shouted, seizing his sword as the British raised their rifles, undeterred as ever that they would be aiming at him. He sprinted forward with confidence as one of his soldiers fell to the ground, wounded. Already some of the men were abandoning their guns for a hasty retreat, motivated by the mortal self-preservation that seemed so absent in their commander. But he only focused on the red-clothed figures in front of him; he could see the vague expressions of determination and distraught on their faces as they fired. The white smoke was blinding.

 

Something hurt. John’s legs gave way as he fell on his back. _I’m shot?_ he thought, sword dropping from his grip; already his shirt and vest were staining as his hand pressed the wound, and he cried out once in pain. _What is this? Am I dying?_ His mind raced frantically, and he opened his eyes, hoping to see retreating redcoats and victorious patriots surrounding around him to declare the day theirs. But all he saw was the sky: the darkening clouds that would soon bring the crops much needed rain and moisten the humid air; and the citizens would praise the Creator for refreshing their grounds and cooling their faces, and not one would thank him for protecting them for how could his martial pursuits compare to the saving grace of well-timed weather?

 

“Oh God,” mumbled John as he stared up at the solemn sky. “Oh God, I _am_ dying.” How much time did he have? How was this possible? He had survived so much worse, surmounted fate so frequently before. His father! Who would tell his father? This was going to kill him, to lose another son so soon after his other sweet boy had perished. His fault. Would his father think him a disappointment, falling over so petty a skirmish? Yes, it was a petty battle, so insignificant in light of their victory at Yorktown. He had so much to accomplish, so much to look forward to. With his father’s name, he was going to be one of the first statesmen of the republic, and perhaps finally make his father proud.

 

His daughter – the girl he had never met. What did she look like? Were her features like his, or did she resemble her mother? Was she content in Europe? Should he have brought her to America sooner as his father instructed instead? Oh God, she would never know him. His sacrifice would mean nothing to her because he would be nothing more than a name attached to the foreign concept of paternity. To lose another parent, even one she had never known, so soon after her mother had never returned from seeking him in France. His fault. He had expressed little interest in her wellbeing since Martha had written him the fateful letter telling of her conception, but now he would have much liked to experience the unconditional love of a child, someone who would have loved him from instinct and not from action.

 

“Colonel Laurens!” One of Mordecai Gist’s men knelt by the side of the fallen commander, whose piteous utterances were drowned out by the gunshots of the retreating troops. John, bleeding profusely, moaned as another soldier joined the first man and the two proceeded to drag him from the field.

 

_Where am I?_ he thought, but his face went taut as a lacerating pain shot through his shoulder. The men set him down on the ground and he listened as they raced out to locate presumably more of the wounded, leaving him to receive eventual medical attention. But John did not think about that as he opened his eyes again and looked back up at the grey sky. Deep in his bones he was aware he was already half dead; time seemed distant, and what felt like hours was in actually only mere minutes as earthly concerns still surrounded him. Soon he would pass as so many before him, and life would continue on for others.

 

Long he had courted death. He knew others thought it his true mistress. They did not understand how tired he was. How death was not something to fear, but someone to be greeted as a friend. And yet. Yet he found himself afraid of the shadowy door beckoning him to enter.

 

While he drifted into delirium, his mind wandered back to Alexander. How long would his friend have to wait for a letter from him before news arrived that would terminate that pining? Tormenting fear and regret washed over John as the familiar ache of love stretched over his heart. How could be apologize to his friend for ignoring his pleas and that he instead unnecessarily risked his life, the life Hamilton had held so dear when Laurens had not? _Perhaps it was for the best_ , the dark horror in his soul said. When he died, their secret would go with him, for despite all his indiscretions, his Hamilton would keep their letters safely locked away, would never reveal the inner workings of his heart to judgmental eyes. _When you’re gone, he will seek comfort from his wife, who will finally cure him forever of this disease._

 

He thought back to better times: cold winter nights on a hard mattress, a lithe form entwined around him to make up for the inferior blankets; arms warm around him in the aftermath of a particularly terrible night terror; declarations of eternal love from someone who had expressed distrust at allowing anyone to encroach on his defenses against human foibles; gentle caresses, passionate embraces, anything he could have done to make him feel wanted and adored.

 

Alexander had once told him he loved him too much. _But why?_ thought John. _Why too much?_ His eyes watered. He thought of his friend’s smile, and he could almost feel his firm, gentle fingers caressing his cheek as he was wont to do whenever John did something naïve. In his mind, he stared into Alexander’s piercing blue-violet eyes, and faltered. He had promised his friend to never abandon him again like so many others before. Through negligence, sheer vanity, he had made it so he had no choice but to break his word and hasten a permanent separation. Alexander would face this new brave world they had created alone. “I’m sorry, my dear boy,” he murmured weakly to no one on the battlefield.

 

John groaned as he was lifted onto a stretcher, the unendurable pain jolting through him. He lay, bleeding and whimpering piteously, looking up at the darkening sky. He felt the light drops of rain as water began to fall, mixing with his tears so no man had to know he cried. Letting the rain cool his face, John suddenly stopped moaning and became still. Then there was calm and peace.


End file.
